Wrapped in a knitted blue shawl, looking cold,

Forlorn, towards me silently she comes;

Her wind-blown hair has a shine like wheat-gold

And with tearful eyes a sad song she hums.

Like a tired old woman she moves slowly,

Like a sinner seeking sacred pardons,

On her shoulders, shawl and hair breezily

Carries the scents of exotic gardens.  

She stops in front of me, falls in my arms,

Hugs me, greets me with a passionate kiss;

Her body is warm and vibrant with charms,

Holding, kissing her is ultimate bliss…

This is a dream-come-true I would not miss…

And I have no idea who she is…

© P. J. Oszmann (2006 Translated and reworked from one of my unfinished Hungarian poems of c. 1951)

© Illustration created in Photoshop (2009)